Category Archives: drunk

Even more Christmas parties end up with me passed out in the street

After two consecutive years of ending work Christmas parties in a pool of my own piss and puke, I’d earned a reputation for being a bit of a wildman at Bauer Media. Alright, maybe not a wildman, more like a pisshead, but it was a reputation I planned to uphold when 2012 finished and we all celebrated at the Beresford Hotel in the slovenly suburb of Surry Hills.

There was a gangster theme, so I got into the spirit of things by dressing as a Chinaman, because we all know most Chinamen are criminals. Well, at least I was dressed as a Chinaman, until a fat girl stole my hat and walked off with it on her meaty head. I was scared she’d eat me if I went after it, so I just pretended I was one of the very, very rare Chinamen who walk around hatless.

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It was a swanky party. The food was delicious, the alcohol did its job and the women were almost wearing expensive designer dresses. We rocked and rolled, and I even told a former Australian Idol finalist to get fucked (I’m sure I broke his heart).

We pub crawled for a few hours until the lovely Tongan gentlemen who guard the doors of Sydney’s pubs stopped letting us in, and I remember getting lost in a dead-end street on my way back to my ritzy hotel.. I must’ve sat at the end of it for half an hour, crying drunkenly to myself as I tried to work out how to get out of this street, before realising that I could simply walk back the way I’d come from.

I eventually made it back to my glamorous accommodation, a rat-infested backpackers lodge in the centre of Sydney called, quite appropriately, The Maze. This place had corridors heading every which way and was set over a number of floors and half-floors, and when I bumbled inside I immediately realised I wouldn’t be able to find my way to my room. I found some sort of lounge room, and lay down on a couch that was surely stained with the semen of a million filthy Pommy backpackers, and passed out (after pissing my pants, of course).

There was a deep, rhythmic throbbing in my head when I opened my bleary eyes the next morning, but it wasn’t just the hangover. There was a skinny, hairy man with a happy face and no shirt, setting a metre from my head and playing a Jack Johnson song on a big set of bongo drums. When he saw I was a wake, he gave me a big smile and played the bongos louder. Ever tap of his stupid hands sent shockwaves through my battered brain.

“I bring to you the music of a new dawn,” the filthy hippie chirped, and started wiggling his head around merrily. I wasn’t feeling too merry, so I waited till the room stopped spinning and got to my feet. I shuffled uneasily over to him and snatched the bongos out of his hand, but the idiot kept looking up at me.

“Please, play me some music from your soul,” he yodelled. What came out of my mouth wasn’t from my soul, it was from my guts, because I flipped the hippie’s bongos over and chundered all inside them, filling the drums to the brim. Then I handed them back to old mate, who looked at me as if I’d just kicked his dog, and sashayed out the door.

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With my Big Man and my Token Asian

I obviously didn’t learn my lesson, because the next year I booked into The Maze again.It’s the cheapest accommodation in Sydney, and my desire to save a few bucks beat my desire to have a bedroom I’d actually be able to find and sleep in. The day started early, with my big, burly, ex-bikie boss pouring goon down the gullet of everyone in the office, and the boozing just got harder from then on. After six hours on the piss, I was smashed by the time we actually got to Darling Harbour, and started double-fisting women wines as soon as I stepped inside. I was a fucking grog monster, cracking onto sheilas and telling the higher-ups at the company how to run the place, so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise when I got booted before 8pm for being too ratshit.

I was surprised, though, because I told a few people to go fuck themselves as two Maori gentlemen with heads like bedpans dragged me off into the night and threw me in a puddle. I don’t really know what happened after that, because the next four hours are a complete blank. I’d like to think I had a whirlwind relationship with an attractive French tourist, but it’s more likely that I sat in a gutter and cried to myself. Such is life.

The next thing I knew, I was stripped down to my undies and sobbing in a hallway at The Maze, because I’d somehow left my room and couldn’t find it again. As far as I can tell, I’d gone back to pass out, woken up for a piss (my brother doesn’t have this problem, because he always takes a piss bottle with him when he stays in such establishments. He’s all class), gone to the toilet, and walked back the wrong way. In my confused state I’d been unable to retrace my steps, and so opted to have a sook in public like a child.

Luckily, an Italian man with a large nose and a mop of hair found me, and was kind enough to lead me back to my room. When we got there, I was so happy that I gave him a cuddle, and the Italian held me just a little too tightly.

“You want Antonio to tuck you in?” he said with a wink, and I wiped away a tear and shook my head.

“Antonio say tuck you in, what he mean is make love to you in way only Italian man can.” I floundered to my feet and kicked the door closed, then pushed a cupboard against it so the deranged lothario couldn’t get inside and fuck me in my sleep.

I felt like a half-digested prawn cocktail when I left my room the next day, and embarrassed to see Antonia sitting near the front desk as I checked out. He just gave me a sad, hurt expression as I passed, and then I walked out of his life forever.

Every Christmas party ends with me passed out in the street

In case you’ve had trouble reading the name of this blog, I like to drink. And there’s no better time to drink than Christmas, when the eggnog is flowing and free beers are being passed around, and there are happy people who need to be drowned out with an over-abundance of alcohol.

Not surprisingly, I have a few stories regarding getting a little over-festive during the festive season. When I was working in Sydney, I earned a reputation for getting shitfaced at work Christmas parties, to the point that I never once managed to sleep in the bed I was meant to after an end-of-year knees-up.

And no, it’s not because I ended up in the bed of some Christmas miracle, having my candy cane sucked. I usually ended up passed out in public, covered in my own bodily fluids. Let’s go…

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The calm before the Christmas party storm (and no, the midget wouldn’t fuck me)

I was working in Sydney for two years before I was able to head to my first Chrimbo party, and I certainly made up for lost time. It was held at the Civic Hotel and the beers were free, so I smashed as many as possible and talked to shit to anyone who would listen. I tried to crack onto women and, when that didn’t work, a pot plant. And when the pot plant knocked me back, too, I chundered into it.

The last train out of Sydney leaves at 1:45am, so I staggered out of the Civic half an hour before that, and weaved my way through traffic to he station. I made it, and poured myself into a seat, looking more like a half-drunk bag of goon than a man. I was on my way home… and then it all went wrong.

We stopped at Strathfield, and I caught a glimpse of the Whelans Hotel, an establishment I’ve frequented on occasions. I was thirsty, so I stumbled off the train and over to the pub – which had, much to my surprise, closed several hours earlier. I rolled back to the station, where I was amazed that the train hadn’t waited for me, and then spent the next 15 minutes trying (and failing) to read the timetable. For some reason it looked like the next train wasn’t for almost four hours… the reason being that it wouldn’t be along for four hours.

There was a fat little man cleaning things up, so I teetered over to him and tried to talk, only to vomit on myself. The fat little man shrieked and locked himself in a small room, which looked comfortable to me. I bashed on the door, asking if he could let me in to have a sleep, and a few minutes later a couple of very large security guards sauntered over and grabbed me. Once they determined that I was just drunk and tired, and didn’t want to rape and eat the fat little man, they let me sleep it off on a bench.

The train finally rocked up, I hopped on, and promptly slept through Gosford and woke up at Narara, meaning I had to walk an hour home with spew on my shirt and an obvious wee-stain on my crotch. All up, the journey took me around eight hours.

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Here I am explaining… no, fuck it, I’m not explaining anything, I’m just talking shit

The next year, I was determined to be more sensible, but it didn’t work out that way. The party was at Fox Studios, in a big shed used for filming movies. There was a cowboy theme, and I spent most of the night getting drunk and asking clearly-disinterested women if they wanted to ride me.

Bauer Media half-arses most things, including pay and employee rights, but they’ve always done parties well. There were piles of food, top international DJs (or so they said – they could’ve put a retard from the local sheltered workshop up there and I wouldn’t have known any better) and even a mechanical bull.

My lack of success with the cowgirls gave me plenty of opportunities to sink beer, and before I knew it, I’d missed the last train home. It was two in the morning and I had to be back in the office at nine, so I did the only sensible thing I could think of – I slept in a park.

I found a green, leafy space in the eastern suburbs of Sydney, and saw that there were a number of filthy hobos sleeping around the place, which was good enough for me. I was wearing a poncho, which worked well as a blanked, and I settled in underneath a tree for a surprisingly good night’s sleep.

One of the hobos must’ve shat in my mouth while I was asleep, because when I woke up the next morning there was a foul taste in my mouth. Some local skinheads must’ve used my head for a footy, too, because it was throbbing as I stood up and tried to get my bearings. And then something wonderful happened! A kind-looking woman trotted over to me with a plate loaded with eggs, bacon and toast, along with a tall glass of some kind of juice.

“God bless you,” she said with a smile. “No-one should have to sleep outside over Christmas.” I took the food and ate it while telling her about my life on the street, then swaggered off to my high-paying inner-city job and counted down the hours til I could head back to my exclusive beachside apartment (alright, I might’ve exaggerated for the sake of the joke).

And if you think that’s bad, wait’ll you hear what happened the next year…

Lake St Clair Strikes Back

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I usually go camping alone, and end up with my pants off, dancing around a fire by myself. Occasionally I decide to be a bit more social and go camping people, which is exactly what I did this weekend, with a short jaunt to beautiful Lake St Clair. You might remember it from my near-death experience a few months ago.

In attendance were my brother ‘The Dagwood Daddy’ Ben, Wade, Mitchell, Dezza and Leon. Also in attendance was a heat wave that would melt the cock off a Greek statue, with temperatures hitting 43 before we even headed off. I haven’t been so warm since I decided to wear my doona to work.

Lake St Clair is home to some of the most magnificent scenery in Australia, with sheer, green mountains rising out of perfect blue waters. It’s remote and strange, quiet and perfect, and the camping ground is incredible. Not so incredible was the caretaker of the place, an obese slug with tattooed-on eyebrows and a serious problem with hording. She lives in a tiny caravan that smells of BO and dog shit, and I’m pretty sure if you looked closely you’d find bottles of urine stacked up in there.

The first night was just beautiful, as the sun slunk behind the horizon and the goon started flying. It’s an incredible part of the world, and it was lovely to watch the water turn orange and then purple and then black, as the day dribbled away. Music played and conversation flowed, and before I knew it, it was almost 5 in the morning, which was my signal to pass out under a tree with my trousers around my ankles. I guess it doesn’t matter who I go camping with or where I go, I always end up naked in public.

When I got up the next morning I was still drunk, so I did my best to polish off the rest of my cask before we all headed out in Wade’s boat. I’m not much of a fisherman (people who don’t eat land animals but eat fish annoy me, so I eat fish and not land animals, just to piss them off), so I went for a swim instead. The lake was dammed about 30 years ago, and the corpses of long-dead trees still poke out of the water, providing an eerie backdrop for a lovely splash. I even felt a slimy eel brush my leg, so now I know why none of my ex-girlfriends have enjoyed snuggling up with me in bed..

The weather turned and the wind picked up, so we beat a hasty retreat back to land, where I discovered my tent had collapsed like every boner in the room as soon as Penny Wong walks in. Actually, that’s putting it nicely, because the thing was fucked and there were poles pointing in every direction like a gang bang porno.

As I was trying to put the stupid thing back together, a fat, shirtless man wandered over to me with a confused look on his face. “Have you seen my wife?” he asked. “She was there when I left to go to the toilet, and now she’s gone. I think someone kidnapped her.”

He left before I could ask him what his wife looked like (if he was anything to go by, she probably hadn’t popped off to compete in the finals of the Miss Universe competition) and I went back to fixing my tent. Twenty minutes later, he was back, with a big grin on his face.

“You must’ve found your wife,” I said with a smile.

“Nah,” he replied. “I just realised she didn’t come camping with me.” And then he swaggered off into the sunset.

The second night was somewhat more reserved than the first, owing to everyone having hangovers. But we still polished off plenty of booze while the storm kept storming and my tent did its best to fly into the sky like some sort of oversized butterfly. My brother pulled out a box of frozen Dagwood Dogs and attempted to cook them on the BBQ, before finally deciding to eat the half-frozen and half-burnt. Finally, unable to polish off the last two of his eight Daggies, he threw them away, only for a couple of lucky possums to race over and tuck in.

The next day’s weather was as angry as a hungry stepmother, so we packed up early and got the fuck out of there. As we were leaving, the shirtless bloke stopped our car. “Fellas, can I just check your boot to see if my wife’s in there? I haven’t seen here all morning.” We floored it and got out of there.

The weekend ended with a much-appreciated bout of paramagliding at the beautiful Catherine Hill Bay. The conditions were poor and the ride was short (but enough about my sex life!), but after my flying troubles it was just great to get out there and fly through the heavens for a minute or two.

Just to float above shrubs, and dance in the air, and be away from troubles for a time. It really is wonderful. There were times when I thought I might not fly again, to have this short flight meant so much. And I didn’t end up with a barbed wire fence up my blurter, which is always a good thing.

Getting pissed at work

I knew there was something weird about Anaconda Adventure Store as soon as I arrived at the orientation day. They handed me an embarrassing vest to wear and made me march around the room chanting the bizarre anthem of the shop, which went something like, “Anaconda is the place/saviour of the human race/mountain high and river deep/Anaconda’s prices are quite cheap.” I came up with my own verse that went, “If you need gear for camping or stunts/don’t go to Anaconda ’cos they’re a bunch of…” but was cut off before I could finish it.

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Anaconda Ashmore – rarely did I see this place while sober

We were all there to set up and open the shop, so we had a few days of learning about Anaconda before going off on a two day camp. That’s where Darryl came into his own. Darryl was a 35-year-old drug addict who smelled like poo and had somehow scored himself a job as the store’s greeter, because everyone wants to get molested by a wheezing smackhead when they pop in to pick up a sleeping back and a pair of thermal underpants.

Most people went to bed pretty early on this camping trip, but me and Darryl and a few others sat up to get on the piss. I hit it hard, Darryl hit it harder, and by 11pm he was stumbling all over the place like Stephen Hawking wearing roller blades. After vomiting on the fire, he thrust a thumb into the darkness and slurred, “Is that the fuckin’ boss’s tent?”

Indeed it was. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t just the boss of the shop, it was the dude who owned the whole company and was in town to oversea the set-up of a multi-million dollar store. So Darryl stumbled over to the tent, pulled his floppy cock out and pissed all over the roof of it. Poor ol’ Darryl didn’t have the brains or sobriety to urinate and remain upright at the same time, so mid-stream he lost his balance and tumbled onto the tent, tearing it in half (that’s Anaconda quality for ya!) and leaving the boss flapping around in a web of piss-soaked material.

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This poor quality photo is the only one I have from my time at Anaconda. Can you spot the Row Show?

Darryl got away with that, but he left Anaconda of his own accord a few month’s later when he moved on from smoking bongs and sniffing glue to injecting heroin into his eyeballs. I’d put money on him being dead by now.

The set-up of the shop wasn’t all smooth sailing. The biggest stuff up had to do with the thousands of flyers that were sent out to the good people of the Gold Coast to advertise the opening of the shop. It was all good except for the website printed in large letters all over it. It should’ve read http://www.anaconda.com.au. Instead, it read http://www.anaconda.com. That missing .au was important, because people who followed the printed address found not budget-priced tents and deals on kayaks that barely float, but high-quality photographs of black men with their large, snake-like penises doing irreparable damage to the vaginas of young, misguided white women.

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An example of the sort of ‘ebony thugs’ found at http://www.anaconda.com

But this is meant to be about me getting fired from yet another retail job, so let’s get back on track. I was porking this chick I worked with, and she was a bit of a goer. I think one or two other team members may have shoved their hiking poles into her dirty trench, which is fine. In fact, there were two blokes called Gary there, and the rumour was she got tag teamed by them in the loading dock (that could either be an actual area in the shop, or a euphemism for her pussy, so go with whichever one works best for you), and something like that just has to be true. I mean, you couldn’t back up an encounter with the Row Show with just one Gary, right?

So this chick invited me and a bunch of other people from work to her birthday party, and because her family was rich it was on a boat. I got fuckin’ smashed and almost fell into the choppy water off Stradbroke Island, and after that we all went to a nightclub, where I got even drunker and stammered like a retarded person at women who didn’t appreciate the attention. Stuck up bitches.

There was a fat girl at work who possessed an arse like the back of a truck, and she obviously thought I was drunk enough to not puke at the sight of her, so she started grabbing me on the dick and saying she wanted to make bang-bang and all that. I did vomit, but that was probably just because of the alcohol. Anyway, after she tweaked my donk for the 17th time, I’d had enough, and told her to, “Fuck off you fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit,” and then promptly fell into a bin.

That’s fine, I’ve done worse. The only problem was that this fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit was promoted to manager a few days later, and she took something of a dislike to me. Suddenly I found myself throwing sawdust on vomit and lifting really heavy things (although nothing as heavy as this chick, so I can’t complain). She tried to make my life hell, but I was drunk most of the time, so I didn’t give a shit, which infuriated her even more.

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Shit like this happened every day, so it’s a wonder I didn’t fucking murder myself

Finally, after a year, it came time for me to leave the Gold Coast and head back home to go to uni, so I put in my resignation at Anaconda. It was the right thing to do, even though my instincts told me to tell them toshove their shitty job and their shitty vest up their collective blurters. I had one day left, which should’ve been a fun day to say goodbye to people, but as I was getting dressed and ready to go, the fat bitch called me up and told me not to come in. Apparently I’d suddenly developed a bad attitude (in fact, I’d had it since the day I got there because it was a fucking retail job, and anyone who doesn’t have a bad attitude about working retail is a fucking idiot), but it was obvious that she just wanted to get revenge by cutting my final shift. I gave her some choice words, then she told me to bring my vest back and hung up. Red rag to a bull, bitch.

It was only 9am, but I got on the turps to celebrate my recent retirement, and after a few bottles of wine I came up with an idea for that bloody vest. I spread it out over the toilet and ‘did a Darryl’ all over it, soaking the fucking thing with my zesty urine. Once it was soaked I took it out onto the balcony to dry it off while I hit the wines again. A few hours later I chucked the piss-encrusted outfit in a plastic bag and hitched a ride out to the shop.

The fat bitch was waiting for me with a smirk on her face, and as soon as I got there she held out her hand and I took the vest out of the bag and gave it to her. “You’re fuckin’ banned from this shop,” she blabbered, while her tits smacked at her knees and her six chins wobbled in the spring breeze. “Teach you to be a fuckin’ prick to a decent woman like me. Now take your little dick and fuck off!”

With that she swung my vest around her mammoth shoulders and slipped it on, obviously as some sort of symbolic gesture of her victory. I could almost see the stink of piss coming off it, but she didn’t seem to notice, even though the customers walking past her were turning green and collapsing around her. A dog even started barking at her, and all the girls on the registers started laughing and slapping each other high fives when they realised what had happened. Finally the fat bitch tore off the vest and threw it away before kicking over a big stand of water bottles, all while I swaggered off into the sunset.